Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2015
They said he had a face
Only a mother could love
And the clothes on his
Back were torn.

His skin was pock marked
And his back was bent.
His teeth had rotted
In his head.

But when he sat
At a piano and sang,
The notes reached into
Your ribcage,

Crushing your heart
With an ivory key.
His beauty could bring
You to your knees.
niamh
Written by
niamh  Ireland
(Ireland)   
  985
       ---, r, bones, jackierutherford, Christine Ueri and 37 others
Please log in to view and add comments on poems